


Wild Things

by fadagaski



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Feral Behavior, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Remix, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 20:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11905401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: It takes a feral to tame a feral.





	Wild Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palimpsestus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsestus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Custodiet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4186365) by [palimpsestus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsestus/pseuds/palimpsestus). 



> Thank you to owlship for extending the deadline and also for running remix. Sorry to all my fellow remix participants, particularly palimpsestus, for being super late with my submission.

It was simple to track the passage of Furiosa by the carnage she left behind. 

The hulk of the Valiant sat like a speared beetle. The mud around it was churned, scarred with deep slashes of struggle. There was an unconscious Warboy – it could be the Ace, but at this distance they all look the same – propped up against the half-submerged carapace, blood and muck smeared over his chest. Capable was camouflaged bog-brown, just her hair a shock of red like a warning. 

Toast slammed the Interceptor brakes and had the door open before the wheels finished spitting filth. Max grabbed her arm to stop her. She whirled on him with blazing eyes, snarling mouth. “Let go!” But Max was scanning the murky exterior. The setting sun cast long shadows, lights a sickly gleam in the stagnant puddles around them. There was no sign of life.

Max loosened his grip. Toast ricocheted out the door. Her bare feet sank and slid in the mud as she scrambled to fallen Capable. At least she kept her handgun up, clean and ready to shoot. 

With his dodgy knee, Max took a more circuitous route, and came around the Valiant from the other side with shotgun in hand. Always his eyes roved the horizon, looking for shadows, hunting for signs of Furiosa. His heart hadn’t stopped hammering since they found the Crow. His fingernails felt thick with the blood congealing under them. He ran his tongue over his teeth.

It _was_ the Ace propped by the Valiant, groggily coming to by the time Max skirted to his side. He had a face full of blood still trickling out of his crushed nose. One white eye gleamed out from the red and black – goggles gone, swallowed by the bog – and caught sight of Max. 

“She’s – feral,” the Ace choked, hoarse. For a moment Max thought the Ace was referring to him by the charming nickname he earned as a bloodbag. Then he added, “Blackwater fever.” Max scanned the scene again and could picture it vividly: Furiosa, delirious with fever, attacking anything that resembled a threat with whatever she had on her that could be made a weapon, until she had incapacitated her rescuers and stumbled off. 

Which meant she’d been drinking the water around here. Or that she’d been made to do it.

Max felt a growl rumbling at the back of his throat. If he found out it was the second case, there wasn’t a nest high enough to save the Crows that had done it to her. 

Capable hobbled towards them, leaning heavily on Toast with one arm wrapped around her stomach, her face almost green beneath the smears of dirt. “She was like an animal,” she said. “We got her arm off her though. They’d put a chain on it.”

Max grunted, ignoring most of what Capable had said. “Which way?” 

With his shaking left arm – his right clearly broken – the Ace pointed south. 

“Hm.” 

He made his slow way back to the Interceptor while Toast helped the Ace creak to his feet. “Max?” Capable’s voice was thready. Max well knew the power of Furiosa’s full-force attack, knew that Capable would be feeling it even worse in a couple of hours. She and the Ace both needed help.

But Furiosa needed him more.

“Max?” Toast this time. Max ignored her. Like a fish on a hook, there was a line of force pulling him into the Wasteland. He slid behind the wheel of the Interceptor, revved the engine, dismissed Toast’s more furious “MAX!” and spun away with a wet arc of mud.

*

The red disc of the sun had melted almost out of sight when Max finally found a track. A giant rock pierced up out of the bog like the last broken tooth in an old woman’s jaw. It was exactly the kind of place Max would stop on a moonless night like this, tucking the Interceptor into a shadow for a few hours’ kip. And in the bloodied twilight, he could just parse the uneven tracks of two boots that had climbed the stone.

Stealth was out of the question with the V8 engine growling across the Wastes. Max pulled right up to the rock, and parked on its west side. The silence after he killed the engine sang in his ears. The driver door creaked overloud, and the thinner mud squelched under his feet. Every breath felt laboured. His skin crawled with the sure knowledge he was being watched with mindless, malevolent eyes. 

As slow and steady as he could make himself move, Max fetched a battered Vuvalini-crafted knapsack from the backseat of the car. After a moment’s hesitation, he left his shotgun. The bag was filled to the brim with skeins of water that swished as he limped to the rockface. Craning his neck, he looked up to the lip of the broken part of the rock, from which there was studied silence. But there was drying dirt right in front of his nose, from a determined boot scrabbling for purchase. She was definitely up there.

He tossed the bag up. It landed with a thump. There was a hiss and shuffle of legs. Max smirked humourlessly to himself. “Furiosa.” No response. He spied blood also smeared on the wall, could maybe smell it. She was feverish and injured. Max’s stomach twisted into knots. “I’m coming up,” he declared. 

It was easy enough to jump and hook his hands over the lip, steel toe-caps scraping against the stone as he prepared to haul himself up. He was _not_ prepared for the blunt fist that hammered down on his fingers. Spitting curses, he dropped and back off. Furiosa’s face peeped out at him, vacant but grimly satisfied, before vanishing from view again. 

Max shook out his hand with a wince, grumbling at the back of his throat. She wasn’t going to let him make that mistake twice, which meant … 

His eyes drifted to the taller part of the rock, crowned now by a darkening sky spackled with stars. She would probably hear him climbing it, so there was a risk that she would scarper down and run off into the desert night, but from the brief glimpse of her Max thought it unlikely. She wasn’t well. He had to risk it. 

*

Max’s fingers were scratched, his bad knee throbbing as he finally heaved himself up to the top of the broken rock. There was a flat space there enough for him to sit and catch his breath. A cool wind dried the sweat on his face. He stretched his legs over the long drop to the Interceptor, wincing at the crack and pop of misshaped cartilage, and massaged the muscles in his lower thigh where the scarring under his trousers ended. 

Behind him, lower down, there was silence. 

Turning onto his belly, Max shuffled carefully across the small platform and peered over the ledge. It was more than a ten foot vertical drop down into darkness. He couldn’t make out Furiosa at all, even with the bright starlight overhead, but under the wind he could hear her breathing, wetter and quicker than normal. She hadn’t run off, at least. His shoulders eased slightly. 

There wasn’t a graceful or quiet way to get down, that Max could see; the rock on this side was concave, impossible to scale with his throbbing hand and big heavy boots. Still on his belly, Max spun so his legs hung down over the black gulf, then shuffled back and back until he was suspended from the upper ledge by his fingers. 

Then he let go, and fell. 

The ground met him sooner than he expected, and he crumpled down hard. Blinding agony shot through his bad knee, but there was no time to deal with that, as out of the darkness came a roar and a heavy body slamming on top of his. Max snarled back, fists flying of their own accord, connecting with any part he could reach – shoulder, thigh, it was impossible to tell with precious little light to orientate himself. Furiosa got a lucky shot to his kidney, and her foot gouged a hole in his shin. Max scrabbled to grab her arms, caught one, and used that sense to aim his headbutt - _SMACK_ \- against her ear. Furiosa shied away, growling and snarling, long enough for Max to get onto his knees. 

He was ready for her when she attacked again. She charged him bodily, an animal going for the shock attack, teeth sinking into the meat of his pectorals where his jacket had parted. Max roared at the pain and smashed his fists down on her shoulders hard. She went, scrambling back, but Max chased after her, grabbing one boot and then the other and _pulling_ so that she scraped across the rough rock and he could climb over her, hand on her wrist, hand on her stump, pinning her down with his whole body as she writhed and bucked and kicked at the air. 

A week of her missing, and three weeks more of him scouting, and his body still remembered the way she felt under him in their room at Citadel, with the door safely locked and the whole night to fall into each other. Without his direction, his hips ground down against her. Furiosa bucked up again, teeth gleaming, her hand hooked like a claw to scratch at him. 

Breathing hard, Max took in the situation, took in his options. Then he let go of her and sat upright. 

Furiosa flipped faster than he could track. His head smacked against the hard rock, breath punched out of him as she landed on top, knees digging into his ribs, her half-arm pressed hard against his throat. Max choked and wheezed, hands limp by his sides, watching the silhouette framed against the stars as she stared down at him. He was rock hard in his pants, right where she was sitting on him. The smell of her was familiarly intoxicating, sharpened by the fever but unmistakably her. 

His mind was beginning to go fuzzy, blood thumping through his jugulars as he gasped for breath. And then Furiosa ground _down_ , and Max shut his eyes against the wave of pleasure that struck through him. He couldn’t help the grunt that rumbled out. Furiosa eased off her half-arm a little, as if surprised by the vibration in his throat. Max sucked in a welcome deep breath of cool night air. 

Just as Furiosa rocked down again. 

Before he could stop himself, Max bucked up to meet her. She still had her half-arm across his neck, and used it like a warning to keep him flat as she began her rhythm, rolling down against his hardness. Max found himself sweating in a sudden burst of heat. Furiosa’s arm slipped on the dampness of his neck and she fell forward, planting her hand next to Max’s head even as his arms came up to steady her. It felt so good to have her under his fingers again, to feel the solid weight of her, the strong ribs and the muscles in her back flexing as she ground down against him, seeking her pleasure through two pairs of trousers and a fevered haze. A part of him noted that she seemed whole, or whole enough, no obvious wet patches of blood, only a few scrapes that flinched under his exploration. 

Most of him was preoccupied.

“Furiosa,” he muttered mindlessly as every thrust sent sparks of pleasure through his body. Furiosa, panting, sat more upright, placing her hand against his chest now to use as leverage to rut faster. She grunted at every downstroke, tension tightening her thighs as they dug into Max’s side, and he held on with every roll over his cock. Furiosa shook her head, he could see that much against the starlit night, felt a drop of her sweat land on his cheek. 

There wasn’t enough friction for him to get off, so it must be even more frustrating for her. 

Running on instinct again, Max sat up suddenly from the abs, wrapping Furiosa in his arms and crushing her mouth to his. She bit his lip, but not with any real intent, and the sting was soon soothed by a swipe of tongue – his or hers wasn’t important. They wrestled for dominance in the kiss, lips and tongues and teeth. Furiosa ground down in his lap, hand scratching through his shirt at his chest with rough nails. Max rucked up the back of her top, calluses scraping over her shoulder blades and down the length of her spine in shivering swoops that left goosebumps prickling. 

Max needed to feel the rest of her, every inch of her, burning hot and alive against all of him. He shrugged off his jacket without breaking contact with her, but his shirt meant he had to lean back, all his abs tensed in a half sit-up so he could whip it off while Furiosa continued to rock her groin against his. Her teeth came down on the join between his neck and shoulder, hot wet sharp heat bursting through his veins. Max grabbed hold of the bottom of her shirt and hoisted it up as far as he could, freeing her breasts for his hands to cup. He pinched the buds of her nipples between his fingers as she had always liked. Furiosa keened, a wild animal sound, and threw back her head to gasp into the empty air. 

Max latched onto her neck, at the spot that always made her shiver and writhe, biting and sucking with abandon. His hands kneaded her ass. Furiosa growled and shoved him down, following after to nip at his neck in stinging vengeance. 

It was all overwhelming Max’s senses: Furiosa’s teeth and the salty tang of her sweat and the heat pouring off her in waves and the throb of his trapped cock every time she thrust down with tantalising but too-little friction. 

By touch-memory, Max wriggled his hands between them. Her belly was scorching, slippery with sweat. Popping the buttons, he slipped into the confines of her trousers and felt for the wiry pubic hair, the mound of her sex, and then through to where she was musky and slick. Her reaction was immediate, grinding down hard where his fingers pressed against her clit. She shuddered all over. Eyes closed, she bit her lip and rocked against his flat calluses with frantic speed, faster and harder and louder, using his hand for her own pleasure. Max took it all, pressed up for her to get more of an edge, and held tightly when she bounced in his lap through her orgasm. 

It passed, but she didn’t stop rocking against his fingers, riding out the aftershocks and the new flood of wet that soaked Max’s hand. With his other hand, Max coaxed Furiosa up onto her knees, and then worked the waist down inch by inch. Furiosa understood after a dizzying moment, and helped shove her trousers down. Then, to Max’s surprise, she launched one-handed at his fly, popping the buttons with more dexterity than he would have credited her in this state. Pretty soon he didn’t care, as his dick jumped at the rub of the backs of her fingers. He heard himself whimper. 

Furiosa shoved him back with her half-arm, keening unconsciously at the loss of his fingers on her clit even as she shuffled forward. But the angle was awkward, and both their trousers were in the way, and she snarled as she struggled to get into a position that worked. Max, with more than an edge of desperation, sat up and knocked her sideways. Furiosa came up swinging but Max was ready, grabbing her arm and twisting so that she went shoulder first into the rock, bare ass skyward. Everything in him wanted to plunge into the hot wet channel pressed against his thigh as he covered her, but he let go her arm and waited for her move. 

She rocked back against him. That was enough.

Max grasped his cock and finally - _finally_ \- sunk into Furiosa with a groan that rumbled through his chest. Furiosa moaned back, and rocked onto his cock. Just like that, they found the rhythm that worked, hard and fast, the silent desert night broken with the slap of skin on skin and the both of them grunting as they rutted against the hard rock. 

With his chest to her back, Max laved a trail down her spine that had Furiosa whining breathlessly. The heat rolling off her sparked a fire within him. His hips pistoned without control, slamming wildly into her and she took it, every bit of him, rutting back for more, deeper, faster, harder. Max felt his balls tighten, knew he was moments away. He reached round to press at her clit, rubbing roughly at it in the hope that she was close enough. She clenched down on him and that was it, he was spilling inside her, dizzy with the tight wet heat and the smell of her all over him and then she came too, rippling over his cock and he spasmed more inside her. 

Heaving for breath, Max eased out of Furiosa and collapsed backwards to the floor. His whole body buzzed and tingled. His knees prickled and ached. In the starlight he just caught a glimpse of come sliding down the inside of Furiosa’s thigh before she looked over her shoulder. She could have stabbed Max then and he wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to do anything about it, prone and half naked as he was. 

She stood carefully, and pulled her trousers up. Max offered her his jacket, which she took, and then she shuffled to the base of the spire where the shadows were deepest. No words. Not even his name. Like a half-remembered dream, he thought of those moments when normally they would curl together on her bed, putting each other back together after they had taken each other apart.

But he thought, maybe, with her accepting his jacket, maybe she recognised him now. 

Max would give her time to rest. Then he would ply her with water and food from his knapsack, lost temporarily in the darkness, and when Furiosa was more herself he would take her back to the Citadel, the Green Place, home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to palimpsestus for such an excellent story to remix. I went a ~~little~~ lot away from your original, but I hope you can see the resemblance.


End file.
